This Is It, He Supposed
by Yombatable
Summary: The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland didn't think he could die like this.


**(A re-upload from AO3, 'cause I have this account, so why not use it?)**

**I was feeling down and this shit vomited out of my brain in about an hour. I decided to post this here because otherwise it's just going to sit on my computer doing nothing... This is probably sad too, it's supposed to be at least. IDK if I pulled it off... Anyway...**

**Enjoy ;)**

* * *

It was chaos.

Everyone was shouting, screaming or running for cover as they desperately tried to save themselves.

Everyone, that is, except the two nations in the middle of it all.

* * *

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland didn't think he could die like this. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd been shot, he couldn't even count the amount of times on all of his fingers, toes, arms, legs, or hairs on his head.

But this was different. No gunshot had made him feel like this. This weightlessness. None had blossomed into pain that spanned his whole body and consumed him so completely, none had torn his heart to pieces, quite literally, mind you.

But this one had. He felt blood spill up his throat as he tried to breathe, like whenever another nation had slit his throat- In fact, no, it wasn't like that at all. It was like when they had thrown him over the side of the ship afterwards, drowning had always been his least favourite pastime...

He felt wet. His clothes were clinging to him. Probably the blood. There must be blood.

So much blood.

He had always hoped it would end in blood.

That was the noble way to go. Wasn't it? In a pool of your own blood?

This wasn't noble though, this was terrifying. This wasn't glorious, it was painful. It wasn't anything like he had hoped it would be, it was the opposite.

Death, he concluded, was not all it was cracked up to be.

He wished he could see something at least, more than the strange mixture of black spots and blurry colour, because he could feel someone touching his chest where the wound was, the fingers were thin, delicate, like that of an artist, but were rough as if they'd been doing recent manual labour, a strange combination, he mused for only a moment before the thought was lost, his mind was having trouble focusing anymore.

He suspected it was because he didn't have enough blood left that wasn't rapidly spilling out over those oxymoronic fingers. Yes, that made sense.

Some of those very fingers touched his face, they were wet. Very wet. Ah, so he was bleeding out.

He felt the liquid on those fingers smear across his face, and he wondered who on earth would bother to do such a thing, but it wasn't malicious, it seemed... more... tender. Loving even.

That almost made him laugh.

Loving? As if.

Does death make one delusional? He supposed that it must, because whatever was falling onto his face now like globs of winter rain couldn't have been tears, but that's what they felt like.

Perhaps this is what he wanted in life, and now it's just his dying brain telling him that it's too late to be loved and missed now, you old fool, you had your chance and you threw it away and shot it a few times for good measure, just like every other time I gave you the opportunity.

That must be it.

Then he felt lips on his own.

He really was just a delusional old man, wasn't he? Imagining that someone was kissing him. How desperate for affection was he that he had to imagine that on his death bed? Maybe America was right and he was repressed.

The lips were soft. That was nice. They were peppering his face with kisses now, the hands were shaking, and the winter tears were still streaking down his face.

At least this imaginary person was mourning him, he supposed.

Breathing hurt. He wondered how much longer he'd have to sit here, his heart aching with pain from the wound and from having this tender person look after him in his last moments. It was nice, he supposed.

Feeling loved, that is. He almost wished he'd gotten to feel it more before he lay in a pool of his own blood in the middle of what had been a regular EU meeting. Maybe France was right all those years ago and he should never have joined. He killed that thought right there. France couldn't be right...

Then he gave up. It was no use keeping up a facade like that now, what good did it do him anymore? What good was it to pretend that he didn't love the gorgeous bastard? Not that it mattered, but closure was good for the soul, and he needed all he could get.

While he was at it, it was probably time to mention to himself that he probably deserved the destruction of his empire, it's probably a good thing France won the 100 years' war, and that it was time to forgive the Nordics for raiding his towns and raping his women... well, perhaps a few things could be left unresolved.

The person tending to him had leant their foreheads together, and he could the feel them trembling and sobbing and he almost wished he could hear their voice, but he had read somewhere that you can't imagine voices, and he didn't want to think about who his dying brain would pick to care for him in his dying moments.

His vision wasn't spotty anymore, just black...

He wondered if he'd closed his eyes...

No...

It was...

Just...

Black...

And white...

And...

* * *

"France?" Said someone behind him, but he didn't care.

He didn't care.

He didn't care about the blood on his clothes.

He didn't care about the tears on his face.

He didn't care about the ugly noises ripping from his throat.

He only cared about the dead nation in his arms.

He shouldn't be dead. Why is he dead? Why isn't he healing? Why isn't he waking up and telling him he's being stupid? Why? _Why?_ _**WHY?**_

"You promised we'd go together!" he whimpered into the others hair, "You said we'd go by each others' hand or not at all!"

"_**Why did you lie!" **_He screamed, clutching him tighter and letting himself sob loudly into the other's matted and iron-scented hair.

"Wake up!" he whispered after a moment, "Wake up, please, Arthur, wake up, I will do anything, just don't be dead, don't be dead, please, wake up, Arthur!"

As he spoke he got more and more frantic, his voice becoming high and erratic and bursting into sobs and cries, but all he got in reply was the lifeless staring of the other nations eyes that no longer held any of the nation he loved anymore.

He laid him down on the floor, choking out another sob as he used his bloodied hand to close the blank, beautiful eyes, before leaning down to press another kiss to cold lips, "I hate that I never told you that I loved you." He said softly, leaning their foreheads together, "I hate that you died thinking that I hated you."

He swallowed back another sob, heaving a heavy breath, "And I'm sorry that I was too much of a coward to tell you until you couldn't tell me you didn't love me back."

* * *

**So after a few people asking me how and why iggy's death came to be, I decided to give this some backstory. Here's what I wrote to one of them: **

**My Headcannon regarding the nations mortality is long and drawn out, so I'm not going to explain it. For now, let's say that England had been going through tough times recently, his people have been protesting and calling for change from a government which has become corrupt. Some radicals are even calling for a complete change, a new government. A new England. A new United Kingdom. As a result England's gotten sick, feeling under the weather but continuing with his duties despite being torn on the issue, split between the feelings of his people and his government. Unfortunately, the radicals have seen his lack of action and decided he had to go, he can't be reformed and he is only loyal to the corrupt government.**

**The radicals develop a plan, bomb parliament with everyone inside. The government will collapse, and the radicals will be free to take charge and change the country for the better. That leaves only one problem. The personification. **

**Now, through some digging through historical texts and reasearch on the nature of personifications, they discover that nations cannot be harmed bodily if their country is fine, but if their land or government is wounded it will make them vulnerable to attack. In essence, if the government that creates them is gone, then they are able to be killed.**

**The plan is set, the bomb in the house, the sniper on the roof, and two men on the phone, one with his finger on the trigger, one on a button, both ready to end the nation of England and start the country anew.**

**(So yeah, there's the backstory, probably more interesting than the piece itself, but ho-hum)**


End file.
